Sorry Isn't Good Enough
by Fellowshipper
Summary: Chris Jericho has some serious explaining to do this time.


Title: Sorry Isn't Good Enough  
Disclaimer: I wish I owned them. As of this moment, though, I don't.   
Rating: PG for light m/m slash and some language.  
  
Notes: Honestly, I don't like this story. It's definitely not one of my better ones. But I needed to finish something before I went crazy.   
  
******  
  
"I said I was sorry!"   
  
Judging by the force with which the water bottle was thrown at his head, Chris Jericho could assume that his apology was not accepted.   
  
"Christian, man, c'mon! I didn't mean it!"   
  
Christian wheeled on the ball of his left foot, turning around to show an incredulous expression perfectly accentuated by wild eyes and frizzy hair. "What? You want me to believe that?" He couldn't help but laugh helplessly when Chris nodded meekly. "How the hell do you accidentally hit someone in the back with a steel chair when there's freaking NO ONE else around? Huh? Wanna explain that one?"   
  
"I was mad."   
  
"I get mad, too! I don't start bending metal objects around your body!"   
  
"You just threw a water bottle at me!"   
  
Fuming, Christian frowned and went back to stalking through the parking lot. "Yeah, and if I had another one I'd aim for your crotch this time."   
  
So. This wasn't going exactly the way he'd planned. Chris chased after his tag partner, dodging the half-hearted punch aimed at his face by taking a couple steps to the side. "Christian, please. I'm really sorry, okay? It's not that big a deal."   
  
"Go away."   
  
"Christian –"  
  
"I helped you once tonight, Jericho. What else do you want from me?"   
  
Unable to stop the snide remark before it left his mouth, Jericho sneered. "Obviously you didn't try too hard to help."   
  
Eyes widening even more, Christian let loose with a tiny snarl and whipped back around to face Chris, nearly making the two of them collide into one another. "Let's get one thing straight, Jerky," he started, emphasizing Chris's own usual insult, "I don't owe you one single damn thing, alright? You attack me from behind for no apparent reason, and then you get pissed off because you need help a week later and I'm not in the mood to forgive you. Tell me what you think I owe you!"   
  
Shuffling his feet anxiously and suddenly feeling like a little boy being reprimanded, Chris dodged Christian's searching gaze and turned his eyes to the pavement. "A second chance."   
  
"Whatever. I'm going to the hotel. You can find your own way back."   
  
"Christian..." Chris trailed off, desperate to make things right and not at all sure how to go about doing that. Since he'd always been an impulsive person, he once again acted before thinking, this time resulting in him grabbing Christian's jacket and pulling him down forcefully for a kiss. It was the first one shared in over a week, ever since the regrettable partner-hitting-incident that Christian didn't seem willing to let go anytime soon. It felt nice, even if it wouldn't exactly resolve anything.   
  
The kiss ended, leaving them still holding onto one another, shivering somewhat in the chill wind. Chris looked up, face pleading to be given a chance to explain himself. "I'm sorry."   
  
For a brief moment, Chris's insides twisted into a joyful knot at thinking he might be believed this time. That, however, wasn't meant to be. A stiff punch to an unsuspecting jaw sent him stumbling backwards, only to trip over the curb and land on his back. Footsteps sounded against the ground, heralding a face looming over him that was silhouetted by the street lamp beside them.   
  
"Sorry isn't good enough."   
  
The face disappeared, the footsteps got further away, a car door slammed, and then the car itself left with a squeal. Chris rolled over onto his side, scowling at nothing in particular and rubbing his quickly swelling jaw. Things just didn't seem to be going his way, that was for sure.   
  
Half an hour later, freezing, sore, and seriously angry, Chris threw the door open to his shared hotel room, half-expecting Christian to dive out of nowhere and bludgeon him to death with the T.V. remote. Instead, he was greeted with nothing but unrelenting blackness. He struggled to find his way through the dark room, cursing and yelping every time he nearly tripped over some unseen object in the floor. An unforeseen problem arose when he felt along the end of his bed and encountered not a blanket but a pair of feet. Groaning to himself but unable to resist, he continued up the legs, over the side, until his fingertips were brushing against a bristled cheek and the strands of silky blond hair splayed across it.   
  
"I wish you weren't such a damned stubborn brat," he mumbled to himself, shaking his head in amusement.   
  
"Takes one to know one."   
  
Surprised as he was that Christian was still awake, Chris swallowed his shock and slid in behind the younger man, slipping an arm around his waist and resting his chin in the crook of Christian's shoulder. "That's why we get along so well."  
  
"We *used* to."   
  
"My jaw hurts."   
  
"Good."   
  
"You don't mean that."   
  
There was a brief pause, then a barely audible sigh. "Okay, maybe I don't, but you still deserved it."   
  
"What is it gonna take for you to stop acting like this? What do you want me to do?"   
  
"Throwing yourself at my feet and groveling for my mercy would be a start."   
  
"Um..."  
  
Christian turned onto his back, refusing to look at Chris and instead keeping his attention on the ceiling. "Apologies are kinda useless when you don't even have a clue what you're apologizing for."   
  
"See, I know I might not be the smartest guy around, but I thought I'd figured out I was apologizing for the chairshot thing."   
  
"I'm not really mad about that anymore," Christian noted quietly, rolling his eyes. "It's just...I don't know. You make me mad sometimes. Okay, most of the time. You're always whining about when you're gonna get your next chance. Tell me when I'm gonna get mine. That's why I left Edge and joined the Alliance. Then I got pushed to the back. So I left them and joined DDP. I got pushed back again. I left him and joined up with Lance and them and guess what? Got pushed back. So I hook up with you and look what happens. Big friggin' surprise."   
  
"That's not my fault."   
  
"No, but I need someone to blame it on. But," Christian went on, frowning, "it's your fault you keep complaining about it. I've never even *had* a chance, Chris. I've been screwed over and gypped out of everything since day one, and you don't even care."   
  
Face softening a bit, Chris shook his head and made a brave move in pulling Christian's hand into his own, cautiously lacing their fingers together. "I do so care. I just don't know what you expect me to do about it. I mean, I can't march into Bischoff's office and be like, 'give Christian a title shot now or I'll break your neck!' Well, I guess I could, but then we'd both be outta jobs."   
  
"Then don't let this get to you so much, huh?" Christian practically begged, for the first time meeting Chris's eyes. "Some people have it worse than you, y'know. Just once I'd like for you to understand that and maybe put me above your title shots and your ego and your pride and whatever the hell else it is you keep complaining about all the time."   
  
"You know I'd do anything for you," Chris offered in a bare whisper. He waited breathlessly for an answer, and when he didn't get one he huffed. "I always put you above my career."   
  
"Bull."   
  
"I do!"   
  
"Prove it, then."   
  
Chris made a tiny unbelieving noise. "I can't prove it! That-that's not something I can prove!"   
  
Met with a challenge, Christian set an intense glare on Chris. "You have a match coming up with RVD, right?" Chris nodded hesitantly, obviously not understanding where this was going. "Lose it."   
  
"What? You're joking, right?"  
  
"No."   
  
"You...I'll get a title shot if I beat him, though! You want me to throw my match? That's...I can't, Christian. You know that."   
  
Carefully hiding the hurt the simple words caused, Christian turned back onto his side to face the wall. "No, Chris, I don't know that. In fact, I know that you can. You just won't. There's a big difference. Lets me know where I stand. Thanks."  
  
"Christian, don't start –"  
  
"Get out of my bed."   
  
"Actually, it's my –"  
  
"You wanna die tonight, don't you?"   
  
No other words were exchanged before Chris found himself literally kicked out of bed, barely catching himself on the night stand before tumbling to the floor. As he half-crawled to his new bed for the night, his head swam with ways to make himself seem like a good guy in Christian's eyes again. So far he was zero and two, and things didn't look like they would get any better unless he made some drastic changes.   
  
******  
  
Boyfriend or title shot? Get laid or get a belt? Friend or job? Somehow, when people talked about the hard choices in life, Chris Jericho had never thought this was what they had in mind.   
  
He sat doubled over on a locker room bench, holding his hands out in front of him, staring at his palms and pretending each of them held the only two options seemingly available to him at the moment. On one hand was friendship, the promise of a successful relationship. On the other was the chance he needed to get back on top of the business and achieve everything he'd ever worked for since he was sixteen. Of course, there was the briefly considered third option of suicide, but that didn't seem likely to fix anything.   
  
"Why is this happening to me?" he asked himself pitifully, dropping his head into his hands and scrubbing his fingertips through his hair.   
  
"Because you've got some real anger management issues."  
  
Chris jerked his head up while simultaneously falling back against a row of lockers, heart racing. "Quit doing that!" he ordered of his tag partner standing in the doorway, arms over his chest and smirk on his lips. "God. Do you always have to pop up outta nowhere? Can't you just walk in like a normal person?"   
  
"I have to sneak around when you're nearby. I never know when a steel chair's gonna whack me from behind," Christian retorted without missing a beat, dropping his arms to his side and walking into the room, completely ignoring Chris's heated glare. "You're up next."   
  
"I know that," Chris snapped irritably, to which Christian arched an eyebrow. The two of them watched each other in tense silence before Chris pushed himself off the bench and tied his long hair back into a ponytail. "I was just about to go out, in fact."   
  
"Uh huh."   
  
"What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were still mad at me."   
  
"I am," Christian replied with a shrug. "Don't be so stuck on yourself. I'm here 'cause if I didn't show up, I'd have Bischoff up my ass about skipping shows and all that."   
  
Hurt, Chris looked to the concrete floor and squashed the urge to look up again. "Oh. Good idea. Um..." He cursed himself silently for acting like a blubbering idiot, all because of this silly blond across from him who could turn him to putty in half a second. Rather than continue embarrassing himself, he turned sharply on his heel and all but ran out the door. Show time, and he had only minutes to decide which hand had the better result.   
  
While he was practically tearing his hair out by the handful, Christian wasn't at all concerned with his friend, tag partner, and sometime lover's plight. No, he was more concerned with stretching out on the bench Chris had abandoned, propping his back against the wall and crossing his feet at the ankles. Once his hands folded over his stomach, he was free to relax and watch with unconcealed amusement the events unfolding on television. Much to his continued delight, a look of worry marred Chris's usually flawless face, a line creased his brow that hadn't been there before. Sure, it was likely that no one else noticed it, but it was easy for Christian to see that he'd apparently gotten Chris considerably shaken up.   
  
Good.   
  
Were the whole truth to be told, he really didn't want Chris to lose his match, nor did he want Chris to lose his chance at the title. The only thing he'd wanted was for Chris to say that he'd do it for him, that he would willingly give up something that was obviously so important to him for the sake of the one he supposedly cared the most about. Christian hadn't seen what was so wrong in asking for a small favor.   
  
His relationship with Chris was a strange one, to say the least. Both of them were terribly insecure about themselves, each other, and pretty much everything in the free world. Both were too clingy for their own good. Both had been burnt badly in at least one prior relationship. Both covered up their emotions through the indiscriminate use of brazen sarcasm. Neither was willing to admit a fault, a wrong, or anything that might make them look the least bit bad. Such paranoia certainly couldn't be healthy in any relationship, but yet it was what made this particular one as interesting as it was. Though they had a tendency to bring out the worst in each other, they could bring out the best like no one else ever had. Nobody else in the world probably had a clue that Chris blew bubbles in his milk with a straw shoved up his nose, or that Christian had a "Kiss the Cook" apron he wore in the kitchen, even though he couldn't cook a decent meal to save his life.   
  
What was worse was that they only did that because the other thought it was funny, just another endearing quality that reinforced everything they liked about each other.   
  
With that in mind, Christian let his nagging thoughts start to gnaw at him and make him slightly uncomfortable. In hindsight, he'd been asking too much of Chris to give up his childhood dream. What if that had been the final straw that sent Chris packing? The only halfway successful relationship he'd ever had might self-destruct because of his selfishness and childish pride.   
  
He sat up straight, nervously playing with the hem of his shirt as he watched Chris go for the Walls of Jericho. That was it. He'd wait by the curtain and greet Chris with open arms and beg forgiveness for his bad judgment. Christian vaulted over the row of benches and made a mad dash through the backstage area, anxiously shoving his hair out of his face when the bell rang to end the match.  
  
One of a kind!  
  
Had he stopped on any shorter notice, he would have toppled over backwards. He skidded to a halt on the slick floor, grabbing onto a trash can to keep from falling down. His head snapped to the left to where a monitor sat on a table, and his mouth immediately dropped open in disbelief. RVD was having his hand raised. Chris was crawling out of the ring. Something was wrong here.  
  
As soon as RVD left the ring and his music ended, Chris looked up at the camera, still short of breath, a microphone to his mouth. He was still flat on his stomach, halfway out of the ring and more than a little weary.   
  
"Christian," he started, panting heavily, "Christian, we're even now."   
  
He dropped the microphone to the ground and rolled out onto the floor, landing on hands and knees before finally pushing himself to his feet. Pleased with himself, he more or less stumbled backstage, expecting Christian to greet him with a crushing kiss. What he expected and what he always seemed to get, it seemed, were two incredibly different things. A solid metal object made harsh contact with his bare back; he went flying several feet forward before sprawling out on the ground, groaning and reaching behind him to clutch his back.   
  
"Hiya, Jerky," Christian greeted with a deceitful grin, pushing Chris's hair behind his ears and patting his cheek affectionately. "*Now* we're even."   
  
"You little bastard."   
  
The grin widened as Christian bent and left a surprisingly gentle kiss on Chris's forehead. "Yeah, well...everyone knows make-up sex is the best kind."   
  
"Not when I'm gonna be crippled!"   
  
"Stop whining. Y'know, I *was* just gonna hug you and say I was sorry, but then you had to go say losing a match was just as good as ambushing me with a chair. I couldn't let that slide."   
  
Chris mumbled something under his breath, then turned blazing eyes up to Christian. "You're such a psychotic bitch."   
  
"Whatever." There was another brief kiss, then "you know where to find me. Don't keep me waiting."   
  
Chris watched silently as Christian rose and started to walk away before calling out his name loudly enough it echoed in the hallway for a few moments. Christian turned and waited expectantly. "We're even now, right? No more ambushing or anything?"   
  
"Right."   
  
"And no more demands that I lose really important matches?"   
  
"Right."   
  
For the first time in over an hour, Chris allowed a tiny smile to cross his lips. "Cool." He paused, the smile fading a little. "For what it's worth, Christian, I'm sorry."   
  
"So'm I. But," Christian went on with a shrug, walking back to Chris and helping him to his feet, supporting him with an arm around his waist, "let's not worry about that right now." He leaned over to press a kiss to Chris's jaw, ironically in almost the exact spot he'd been punched the night before. "Let's just worry about kissing and making up."   
  
"Has anyone told you lately how much of a psycho you are?" Christian only grinned to himself and ruffled Chris's hair playfully until Chris ducked under the hand assaulting him and leaned up to push a kiss to the bottom of Christian's jaw. "Oh well. I wouldn't have it any other way." 


End file.
